Furious Justice
by Chuckie Anelli
Summary: A young and freshly recruited FBI agent is given the task of investigating Lucas Hobbes and Dominic Torretto's crew. What he finds out will bring him in direct conflict with the protagonists and test his ability to survive. VERY Slight crossover with the old 1990s "Martial Law" beat-em up films. Of course I do not own anything of the Fast and the Furious or Martial Law movies.
1. Chapter 1

**Furious Justice**

 **A Fast and the Furious fanfiction which takes place directly after Fast-Five. Slight crossover with the old 90s martial arts "Martial Law" film series. I do not own any of the characters from either franchise. This is just a fanfiction for fun and entertainment.**

 **Chapter 1:**

He expected for his first day on the job to be interesting but nothing quite prepared Orson Willard for what he was about to encounter. He stepped through the front doors of the Los Angeles headquarters building of the Federal Bureau of Investigations, noting the great seal of the organization emblazoned on the floor as he strode toward the elevators. Switching his briefcase from his right to left hand, he was about to press the call button for the elevator when he heard a voice call his name.

"Special Agent Willard?" The voice said, making him turn around. The voice belonged to a man much older than Orson's own twenty-eight years. The man extended his hand and Orson shook it. "I'm Special Agent Branford, nice to meet you. Did you have any trouble finding the place?"

"No, I didn't sir. Kind of hard to miss it." Orson replied.

Branford smiled and pressed the call button for Orson. "Yeah, its a pretty big place I have to admit."

Orson had to admit that he found it curious that somebody would be waiting to greet him in the lobby. _Maybe that's just how they do things in the FBI. Maybe people here are just nice_ He thought to himself. Before he could put his question into words, Branford spoke as they stepped into the elevator.

"I know you were hoping to get yourself set up and situated but Special Agent in Charge (SAC) Dunning wants to speak with you immediately."

A million questions and scenarios flooded Orson's mind at Branford's words. _Why does the SAC want to see me? Did I do something wrong? I just got here!_ He decided to calm himself down. Orson learned a long time ago not to jump to conclusions or to make suppositions. All it did was blow things out of proportion or make things worse than they already were. Instead he nodded and shut his mouth. Branford nodded in return as if in satisfaction in Orson's choice of response.

Soon they were in front of the oak door of SAC. Orson noted that there was a faint woody smell coming from it; the door looked oak so he thought that made sense. The whole office he noticed, had a sterile smell and feel to it, much unlike the police stations that he was used to. Branford sharply knocked on the door twice and a clear voice that said, "Enter!" was the response.

A tall, rangy, gray haired man stood from behind a gigantic desk as Orson and Branford entered the office; Branford shut the door behind them. "Agent Willard? I'm SAC Dunning, pleased to meet you." He said as he extended his hand. Orson took the offered hand and was then directed to a seat. Branford sat down next to him but not before Dunning sat down first.

Dunning produced a manila file folder and opened it up. "I've been going over your file, Agent Willard. You've had a very impressive career," He began. "Five years with the L.A.P.D. Two of those years working patrol before being transferred to the Anti-Gang Task force where you served with distinction. You even did a stint in...'Martial Law?' What's that"

Smiling Orson said, "It was a program that the L.A.P.D. started, to work on enhancing police officers hand to hand skills. Sean...I mean Lieutenant Thompson and Detective Sergeant Billie Blake started the program, them being experts in martial arts themselves."

"Ah..." Dunning said, nodding. His finger traced down the file which notated and confirmed Orson's story. "Says here you're no slouch in that department. You hold black-belts in Shotokan Karate and Judo, a fifth and a third degree respectively." Again he nodded this time, impressed with what he read. "Then you transferred to Internal Affairs."

He paused and looked up at the person he was reading about. "Not a lot of people _willingly_ transfer to IA, especially when they were having so stellar of a career where they were at. According to the files, another year and you would have easily made Detective Sergeant. Yet you asked for a transfer to IA, why?"

Orson felt himself shift uncomfortably, not from the question but from under Dunning's withering gaze. "Sir, I've never had a particular liking for bad cops. I felt that IA was the place where I could best serve my community."

The boss nodded slightly in agreement. "Indeed. It says here that shortly after you transferred there, you put away four of the seven members of your former task force. The cases were airtight too, apparently there was a lot of corruption in that unit. I have to ask, Agent Willard, was it personal?"

There was a pause as Orson pondered how he should answer the question. In the end he decided that honesty was the best policy. "I'd be lying if I said that there wasn't some personal feelings involved in those busts. But that _wasn't_ what motivated my intentions for the arrests. The unit had been skimming off the drug money they captured and even murdered somebody, making it look like a good shoot."

"Well because of your efforts, 55 convictions were overturned and over four- million dollars of restitution was paid to the families of those incarcerated by the dirty cops. I can't imagine that you were very well liked after that."

"I didn't do the job to be liked, I did the job because it needed to be done." Orson replied, feeling a little defensive.

Again the boss nodded. "It also says here that you even slapped the cuffs on your father. Your father was a cop and he'd been collecting protection money. It seems like you squandered any good will that you might've had with the department. I guess that's why you transferred over to the FBI right?"

"With all due respect sir, where is this going exactly?" Orson said. He didn't mean to lose his patience, he really didn't, but he didn't join the FBI to be grilled on his past deeds.

At first, Dunning stopped dead in his tracks, stunned. He sat down the file and looked intently at Orson, then he grinned. "I'm sorry, son. I didn't want to give you the third degree but I wanted to know what I was dealing with." Orson looked puzzled at the SAC's response but said nothing. "I had to know if you were as tough and incorruptible as your file said you were, now I know because I can see it. I just had to make sure. "You like putting away the bad guys don't you?"

Nodding Orson replied, "Yes sir, I do. I don't like the guys who 'get away with it.' I'll take them down when I can."

"That's why you're perfect for this job." Dunning said as he closed Orson's file and set it down. He picked up another file and slid it toward the young agent. "Are you familiar with the Toretto case?"

Thumbing through the file, Orson nodded his head as he studied the information. The case was legendary in law enforcement circles. It had started out as a joint FBI/LAPD task force on hijackings. An undercover cop named Brian O'Conner was sent to infiltrate the hijacking ring but he let the leader of the gang, Dominic Toretto, go for unknown reasons.

After being drummed out of the police, O'Conner absconding to Miami to avoid his own arrest, he was offered a deal to get his crimes expunged by cooperating with another joint federal agency task force. He helped to nab a major drug lord and was offered a spot on the FBI. He was supposed to infiltrate the organization of yet another drug lord but encountered Toretto again. The mission was a success and Toretto was apprehended for his past crimes. For reasons that could only be explained due to friendship, O'Conner helped Toretto escape incarceration.

A Diplomatic Security Service (DSS) Agent named Lucas Hobbs was sent to arrest Toretto and O'Conner and tracked them down to Rio de Janeiro, Brazil on suspicion that the two fugitives had killed undercover Drug Enforcement Agency (DEA) agents. Hobbs failed to arrest Toretto and O'Conner but managed to uncover the real killers. The crew was last seen in Los Angeles after being offered immunity for their help in taking down a ruthless British gangster named Owen Shaw.

"I thought this case was closed sir?" Orson said after closing the file folder. "Hobbes cut Toretto, O'Conner, and the rest of the crew an immunity deal after the England caper. Why the renewed interest if I may ask?"

"Immunity for their past crimes involving the hijack, yes. Not immunity for willful destruction of property and manslaughter." Dunning replied.

"Come again sir?"

"In Brazil, Toretto and O'Conner stole a fifty-ton bank vault and dragged it through the streets of Rio. The feat was remarkable in of itself, but at those speeds with that kind of mass, it was a destructive weapon. Turn to page 81 if you'd please."

Doing as he was instructed, Orson turned to the page and saw the photos of the rampant destruction left in crew's wake. He let out a low whistle as he flipped through the photos. "Wow." was all he could say. "Wait a minute, you said manslaughter?" said Orson, the phrase dawning on him.

"That's right, Willard. During their 'jaunt,' they used that safe as a wrecking ball, destroying all sorts of property in the process. This included a bank where local patrons were there cashing their checks of all things. Seven were killed when that safe smashed through the bank building. I won't even go into the body count of the cops that they killed."

"Wait a minute, they killed cops too?" Orson replied incredulously.

"Yes, yes they did. We can't speak to whether or not that these cops were good cops or corrupt cops as Rio has a horrible history of corruption within their law enforcement agencies. But, the fact remains that they killed a bunch of cops with their antics. Let's say that most of the cops had it coming, can anybody really expect to believe that _all_ of them were bad cops?"

Closing the file, Orson sat back stunned, trying to absorb all he heard and read. "I didn't know about any of this sir."

"Of course you didn't. This was classified as a federal matter once the Rio caper was finished. The Brazilian federal agencies have issued an arrest warrant for Toretto, O'Conner and the rest of the crew. I want you to go down to Brazil and investigate the allegations first hand."

With a grim nod, Orson placed the file under the crook of his arm. "Yes sir, I'll do my best. But I do have to ask, why me? I'm just a rookie."

"You're new to the FBI yes, but you're no rookie. Your experience as an investigator with IA I feel is a great asset."

The phrase struck Orson as curious. "You must have hundreds of investigators that are probably more qualified than me sir. I find it curious that you highlighted my IA experience, why?"

"You're sharp, just as sharp as your file indicated you were." Dunning answered. "I have a strong reason to believe that Hobbs didn't just 'lose' them in Rio. I think he let them go. If that's the case, then Hobbs is just as big of a suspect as O'Conner was when he let Toretto go all those years ago. I want you to investigate the whole thing, get all the evidence you can. If the evidence supports an arrest warrant, we go after the Toretto crew."

Orson stood up, smoothing out his crisp, blue suit. "Again sir, I'll give it my all. If there's any evidence to support these charges, I'll find it."


	2. Chapter 2

**I do not own the characters, setting or anything to the Fast and the Furious and Martial Law movies. This is a fanfiction written strictly for enjoyment.**

 **Chapter 2:**

Two hours later, Orson found himself on a plane to Brazil. It had been a very simple task for Dunning to alert the Brazilian authorities to Orson's arrival and what he'd be doing there, and also securing transportation. Though they didn't have unlimited funding, they had a substantial amount. The only thing that Orson found odd was that he wasn't part of a task force for something this major. Well that was wrong, he was part of a task force but it only consisted of him and Branford.

Orson started to ask why there was no major task force set up for an assignment of this magnitude but then caught himself. When Dunning voiced his suspicions of Hobbs had possibly let Toretto and company go, that was all that needed to be said. Since Hobbs worked for the DSS, he had access to virtually unlimited information. A major investigation into the Rio caper would send up major red flags, giving Hobbs time to alter or destroy evidence.

Not only that, the FBI was not immune to leaks or security violations as recent history had painfully taught. It would be tricky enough investigating this case. Add the possibility of investigating somebody that was part of a completely different branch of the government and the chances of success decreased exponentially. No, an investigation of this nature would have to be kept highly secret, something Orson had come to appreciate during his time with IA.

He wondered how well the Department of Justice and the Department of State worked together and his knee-jerk reaction was, not very. Though he had never been part of an inter-agency task force himself, he had heard horror stories from others who had. That was reason enough to not contact the Department of State for assistance in this matter.

Branford insisted on talking on the flight down even though Orson tried to sleep. The senior agent was naturally a chatty sort. No doubt about it, he was friendly but Orson wished he'd just shut up for a few hours. After awhile, the young agent just gave up trying to sleep with a resigned sigh.

They talked about a variety of subjects; actually Branford talked and Orson just listened, nodding intermittently.

"So, you really slapped the cuffs on your old man huh?" Branford asked which made Orson wince. "I'm sorry, I guess that's out of line." The older man immediately apologized.

With a sigh, Orson shrugged. _Well we're going to be working together so why not?_ He thought. "Yeah, I arrested my dad" he replied, then went into the story. "For years, ever since I was a kid actually, he had been collecting protection money from shop owners on his beat. He never made it past Sergeant; my dad was a resentful sort so I figured he felt justified for doing it.

"Anyhow, I had no idea about all this growing up. When you grow up in that, you never really notice the little things that indicate corruption. Its not like my dad bought expensive cars or houses or anything like that, but there were little things that if one paid attention, you could tell he was on the take. I didn't notice this until afterward of course.

"The case came across my desk and of course I took it. I had no idea that the evidence would lead toward my dad." Orson paused for a moment, looking down at his hands folded in his lap. "I didn't want to believe it of course. I was tempted to turn the case over to somebody else. Hell, I was even tempted to doctor the evidence to point the suspicion away from my dad."

"Why didn't you then?" Branford asked, his voice showing he was highly intrigued.

"Because I got pissed off. You see, all my life, my dad told me and my brother that to be a man you have to be good and honorable. I took those words to heart, I really did. To find out that he was telling me this, all the while he was on the take really angered me. I wasn't all of a sudden, angered at first either. It took a little while but when it finally sunk in, I went after my dad with everything I had." Again he looked at his hands. "Needless to say that I'm not invited to dinner at the house much anymore."

That was an understatement. His mother had a major stroke soon after his father's arrest and his brother who was also a cop, refused to speak to him. Things had been tenuous when he first joined IA to begin with, when he busted John Willard, their father, the family completely disintegrated. Orson had become a pariah amongst his fellow officers; there was a line that even IA officers should never, would never cross, and Orson had crossed it.

Because Orson had crossed that invisible line between crusader and vengeful angel, he found that his case load began to shrivel up. He was posted to desk duty more and more despite his spotless record. The few friends that he had gained in the department including his partner, Dwight Scott, drifted away from him. Not that he had lot of friends left in the first place after he joined IA; that was a fast track to losing friends since they saw everybody who worked for IA as "rats" and traitors to the badge.

Knowing that his career was pretty much dead ended in the LAPD, he sought employment elsewhere. Thanks to his law enforcement experience, he was able to easily meet the requirements to be an FBI agent. The surprising thing was, what made him a shoe-in was the fact that his former commander sent him a glowing recommendation letter.

Considering the circumstances, he wasn't sure why he had gotten the letter. It could have been because the department wanted him out of their hair but he wasn't so sure. He never got around to asking, he just thanked his commander and gracefully bowed out.

Branford leaned back in his seat and again whistled lowly. "Wow," he muttered with his voice solemn. "I'm really sorry to hear that. Are you...alright?"

At first Orson raised a quizzical eyebrow but then he understood what Branford meant and nodded. "Yeah, I'm good now I think. I've since made my peace with the whole thing. I know I can take solace in the fact that I was right. There _is_ no invisible line to cross. If I didn't do my duty I would've been just as wrong as my dad was. Besides, my job was...is to enforce the law, not to interpret it." He paused and turned toward Branford. "Thanks for asking though, by the way."

His older partner nodded and settled back into his seat. Orson let out an inaudible sigh of relief when it looked like Branford had finally decided to stop talking and let him get some shut eye. "You know, the Brazilian police do have a major problem with corruption." Branford said, making Orson open his eyes; he tried not to show how annoyed he was. "We should be prepared for...snags."

Merely shrugging Orson said, "It's possible. But corruption or not, if what they sent us is the straight goods, then our job is going to be pretty easy. I've found that no matter how evil somebody or something is, the truth does far more damage than a lie."

Content with that or at least to Orson he was, Branford shrugged and settled back into his seat and closed his eyes. Orson smiled and shut his eyes too but after a few moments, found that he couldn't sleep. Branford's loud snores didn't help things any. To Orson, it sounded like a busted chainsaw. _Thanks a lot Branford!_ He thought furiously. With a low sigh of frustration, he resigned himself to studying the case file. _Plenty of time to sleep later when this case is over._


	3. Chapter 3

**I do not own the Fast and the Furious or Martial Law movies' stories or characters nor claiming such. This is a fan-fiction written solely for enjoyment and entertainment.**

 **Chapter 3**

Under any other circumstances, a trip to Rio de Janeiro would have been considered a vacation or at the very least, a working vacation. After going through customs, getting their weapons checked and meeting their liaison and translator Fabricio Dos Santos, they took the translator's car to the police station. Orson looked out the window to see the beautiful, pristine beaches of Rio and the scantily clad women walking upon them. _What are the odds that we'll get some free time?_ He thought with a smile as he gazed and did his best not to drool. He turned to Branford and the expression on the older agent's face mirrored his own thoughts. Dos Santos merely chuckled as he drove.

Three hours later, the two agents and their translator found themselves in the morgue. They felt shaken after their meeting with Chief of Police, Alemeida. Over the years Orson had developed a knack for sensing corruption; it was an ability that was almost psychic in nature and Alemeida buried the needle.

It wasn't anything overt but there was little things that the chief said that didn't match up as to why police station had been raided and a gigantic vault had been dragged through the streets of Rio. The chief had said that it had incriminating evidence inside of it but never specified what. Also, the chief refused to comment as to why Hernan Reyes, a ruthless local drug lord and his bodyguard had apparently been involved in the ensuing chase and was subsequently killed.

"I highly doubt it was 'evidence' that was in that vault but Reyes' money." Orson said as they stood in the morgue.

"Yeah, I get that same impression" Branford agreed. The two agents talked low while Dos Santos chatted with the coroner, an attractive woman named Dr. Angelina Silva. "That would explain why Toretto raided the station. Him and his gang had been documented raiding local drug stash houses earlier in the week."

"Yeah true. But motive is irrelevant. We're not here to solve the mystery of what was in the bank vault but to verify possible manslaughter." Orson mused as he thoughtfully put his hand on his chin. "After all, the Brazilian warrant didn't mention armed robbery. I'm pretty sure that Alemeida doesn't want to open that can of worms."

Though Branford was the senior agent, he had no problem stepping back and letting the younger agent take the initiative; it seemed a natural fit for him. To Branford, he certainly seemed very competent at it.

Moments later, Dr. Silva came forward with a stack of files. "Gentleman," she said in very lightly accented English in contrast to Dos Santos' super-thick accent. "Here are the autopsy reports and photos of all the victims of the chase." Orson was surprised at how fluent her English was. He found himself very drawn to her but shook the thought out of his mind. _Get your head in the game, Willard. You have work to do!_

Neither agent liked being in the morgue at all. In fact, if they had to vote on their opinion of morgues, they'd find that they would come to a consensus on this one being one of the gloomiest places ever. That didn't change the fact that they spent the next three days, ten hours a day, pouring through the reports and photos, some of them so grisly that Orson had to turn his head away periodically.

Dead bodies were something that one, no matter how many times they saw them, never got used to. Despite their distaste, the agents had to admit that the photos certainly drove the point home about the scale of damage Toretto and his crew had caused. The price tag of the damage caused by the jaunt definitely underscored the photos. The estimate was somewhere in the tens of millions of dollars.

"This definitely qualifies as the definition of manslaughter. I've gotta say that the Brazilians have a strong case for their warrant." Orson said.

Skipping ahead, Orson came across the reports on the deaths of Reyes and his bodyguard Zizi. What struck him as unusual was how the two had died. While everybody else had died due to blunt force trauma and other impact related deaths, these two had been shot to death.

Pulling out the ballistics report, Zizi had been killed by a 9mm handgun; Orson mentally called up the files he'd read on the plane ride and noted that O'Conner had favored 9mm handguns. Though it was merely a hunch, he was willing to bet that O'Conner was the one who pulled the trigger on Zizi. He made a mental note to compare the Silva's ballistics report with the ones in his files.

Reyes' death intrigued him even further. The autopsy revealed that he most likely would have died of his injuries but was killed by two point blank range shots to the chest. What really sparked his interest was the caliber used, .44 Magnum. Nobody else used .44 Magnum rounds during the chase, not the Rio P.D.,who were present at the scene at least. Also, the fact that Reyes was laying in a nearly prone state according to detectives when he was shot. To Orson, this seemed like somebody delivered a coup d'grace.

"Hey Branford," Orson called over his shoulder.

"Yeah, what's up?"

"Weren't some gang members that Hobbs and his team engaged, killed by a .44 Magnum?"

There was a pause while Branford rifled through some pages and then, "Yeah, that's right. Officer Elena Neves filed a report in the very beginning of their investigation regarding the shootout. They were chasing O'Conner and Toretto's sister through a Favela or ghetto. One of them caught Hobbs by surprise and he was forced to fire."

"And he carries a .44?"

"Well, the report doesn't explicitly say that but..." Branford paused again as he parsed through the ballistics reports. "It sure looks like the same .44 slug used on that gang member matches the slug found in Reyes."

"Ladies and gentlemen, we have ourselves a homicide!" Orson said, nodding. "I'm surprised that the investigators missed that!"

"Well Orson, gang members who deal drugs probably aren't high on their list of priorities." Branford explained. Because we asked for every violent death involving Toretto and Hobbs while they were in Brazil, we were able to find a link. They probably ignored it." He rubbed his eyes and said, "We certainly got the eyestrain to show for it. Good catch though!"

Orson smiled at the praise given to him by the senior agent. He couldn't remember the last time that somebody gave him a kudos for his work. "Thanks sir. If the .44 slug matches Hobbs gun, that proves that he was on that bridge and killed Reyes. Also, one of the 'drag cars' was on that bridge and wrecked. Fingerprints belonged to Toretto.

"Given Reyes' time of death and all the eyewitness statements of the chaos they saw on the bridge, I'm willing to bet that Toretto and Hobbs were on that bridge at the same time. And if that's the case..."

"If that's the case, Hobbs let Toretto go." Branford finished the sentence. "That's aiding and abetting a known felon. Between all the traffic video of Toretto and O'Conner tearing ass through the streets of Rio, breaking into the vault and now this, it looks like we've got a pretty airtight warrant." Branford replied. He winced as he looked at a video replay of a traffic camera catching the bank vault smashing through the bank where the people were killed.

"Yeah that's right. All we need is to get our hands on Hobbs' gun and match it to the slugs to the ballistics report."


	4. Chapter 4

**I do not own the characters nor the stories of the Fast and The Furious or Martial Law movies. This is a fan-fiction written solely for enjoyment and entertainment**

 **Chapter 4:**

"Well it sure seems like you have enough to support an extradition warrant." Dunning said as he paced behind his desk. "Much as it disgusts me turning these people over to a guy as blatantly as corrupt as Alemeida, the information is solid. They _did_ kill those people, unintentionally or not."

Orson and Branford both nodded. "Not only that sir, it looks like your hunch about Hobbs was right. He _was_ working with Toretto or at least in a limited fashion." Orson said and he explained his theory about Reyes time of death and the presence of Toretto on the bridge. "If we can get our hands on Hobbs' gun and test it, that would certainly prove my hypothesis."

"I gotta admit boss, it is pretty strong. Slugs match the ones found in both a gang banger and in Reyes." Branforedfollowed up. "Not only that, Hobbs' motive for killing Reyes is awfully strong."

"Oh?" Dunning said curiously.

"Well sir, his _entire_ team was wiped out by that gang in an ambush. Having been a team lead myself once upon a time, if my team had been wiped out, I'd want a little payback too." Branford said, referring to the Robbery Team Task Force he had headed up five years ago.

"Yes sir, that's correct. Hobbs definitely has motive and it looks like he had opportunity as well. We just need to prove the means now." Orson said. "It doesn't matter if Reyes was a drug lord or not. That wasn't self-defense but murder."

Dunning paced some more and then came to rest behind his chair. "Well how do you propose getting his pistol away from him to test it? As strong as this information is, its not enough for an arrest warrant on Hobbs. On the others, definitely but not on a DSS agent, _especially_ not on one as decorated as Luke Hobbs. Not only that, there's the whole inter-jurisdictional thing to worry about between Justice and State."

Orson and Branford had to admit that they were stymied by that fact. The three of them sat in the office in silence as they pondered their next course of action.

"Well calling him in here for questioning is out of the question because we don't have probable cause. What if we just asked him to come down for a friendly chat? He has to surrender his weapon down at the lobby for security reasons anyway right?" Branford said.

Orson saw where Branford was going but shook his head. "No, even if he came down here and surrendered his weapon and we test fired it, it wouldn't hold up in court since that's his personal property and we would've fired it without his permission."

"Agent Willard is right, the evidence would get thrown out as having been obtained inappropriately." Dunning said. "Looks like we're in a bit of a sticky-wicket."

"What if Hobbes already fired the weapon?" Branford inquired, almost to himself. The other two agents in the room turned toward him. "If we ask him to fire the weapon, it would be pretty suspicious right? But what if he were in a setting where he was going to fire the weapon anyway? We could just collect the bullet."

Smiling, Orson saw where Branford's line of thinking was going and he liked it. "He's right sir. It's just much easier to get him to fire the weapon in a situation where he'd have to, or _want_ to fire it. Not a shoot out or anything..."

"But on a firing range!" Dunning finished. "Okay, it's a plan. We don't have access to Agent Hobbs' schedule to include his range time because that's privileged information, but there's nothing in the manual saying that we can't get creative."

A week later, Orson found himself at the Torrance Gun Club. The range consisted of ten outdoor stalls with the paper targets down range about forty-five yards. He loaded up his Detonics Scoremaster .45 ACP and waited at the fifth stall which was mid-range. He was very fond of the pistol as it had saved his life many times during his tour with the Anti-Gang Task Force. He found that the standard issue Beretta 92FS didn't have the stopping power to suit him so he switched to the Scoremaster and never looked back.

"Agent Willard?" A deep, baritone voice called from behind him. Orson turned around to see a hulking man walking toward him in a loose, easy gait. He was bald and wore a goatee that made him look more intimidating than he already did. His shirt flexed against his muscles with each step. "I'm Agent Luke Hobbs, nice to meet you." he said, extending his hand. Orson took the hand and noted that the muscles weren't just for show when he felt Hobbs' grip. He also noted Hobbs' ultra-bright, white smile that was friendly and warm.

"The feeling's mutual Agent Hobbs." Orson replied with a smile that was completely disingenuous. Having lots of practice during his time with IA interviewing recalcitrant cops, he perfected the fake smile to an art form. He had to admit that he felt a tad bit inadequate standing next to the huge agent. He could see how his reputation as a feared man-hunter was earned.

Putting on his shooting glasses Hobbs said, "You know, when I got your invitation to go shooting, I had to admit I was a little puzzled. I mean it was pretty out of the blue."

Inwardly, Orson smiled. Hobbs was referring to the "shooting competition" email that he sent to the DSS agent. "Well, the way I hear tell is that you're one of the best shots law enforcement has to offer. It's not like we cops get a lot of time to have fun and shooting is something we can all relate to."

"True." Hobbs said, nodding.

"So being something of a 'dead-eye' myself, I figured I'd see how I'd stack up against someone of your...reputation."

Again Hobbs' smile came out but this time there was something behind it. He was being challenged and his ego demanded that he accept. "I can hold my own." Hobbs said simply. "Well, shall we begin?"

With a nod, Orson put on his shooting gear as well. "That's quite a hogleg you carry! Planning on blowing a jumbo jet out of the sky?" Orson said, nodding toward Hobbs' pistol in his hand. The Smith and Wesson Model 629 Competitor Performance Center, .44 Magnum was huge. To Orson, it fit the big man himself so he decided to skip the "compensating for something" jokes.

"I like the stopping power." Hobbs replied simply. "I noticed that's no slouch you're packing either."

"I too, like the stopping power. How about best of three sets? We'll do six shots since you're packing a six shooter."

Hobbs nodded and Orson motioned that he go first. The DSS agent stepped to the shooting line and capped off all six shots. All six shots hit the center of the target and Orson had to raise an eyebrow in respect to Hobbs' shooting.

"I guess with a six shooter you have to be accurate with every shot huh?"

"Yeah, you kinda do. Can't afford to waste slugs you know?" Hobbs replied as he emptied his revolver of its spent casings. He hit the switch to bring the paper target in on he motorized wire. When he received it, he smiled. "Yeah, definitely got to be accurate!" Orson noted the grouping of the shots was extremely tight as well and he let out a legitimate low whistle of awe.

Hanging up a new target, Orson sent the piece of paper downrange to the same distance and aimed his pistol. He barked off six shots and pulled the target back. Smiling, he held up the paper to show Hobbs; the grouping while not as close as Hobbs was nearly identical.

"Not bad at all!" Hobbs exclaimed, genuinely impressed.

"Yeah, I have my moments." Orson replied. He was actually being very modest. His dad had taught him and his brother how to shoot from a very young age. When Orson graduated from the police academy, his shooting scores were in the top three percentile. He was classified as an "expert" and earned the Expert Marksmanship Badge.

The two men had a few more rounds of shooting but by the end, Hobbs proved the superior marksman though it was a close match. After congratulating each other, Orson handed Hobbs a one-hundred dollar check. "As promised, to the victor go the spoils." Orson had found when doing skip-tracing operations, the best enticement for anybody to give up information was money. Hobbs was no exception.

"Much obliged" he said with that thousand watt smile as he took the check. This time the smile was genuine.

They bantered a little while longer as they walked out of the shooting range to their respective cars. "See you around, good meeting you!" Orson shouted as he climbed into car.

"Likewise!" Came the reply from Hobbs. The DSS agent pulled away in a snazzy blue, 1966 Pontiac GTO. Hobbs didn't quite burn rubber away from the building but he did make the engine growl loudly as he left. Even Orson had to nod in respect to Hobbs' wheels. He himself felt a tad inadequate in his 2003 Toyota Camry.

"Maybe he feels a kinship with Toretto" Orson muttered to himself. Once he was sure that Hobbs was out of sight, he got out of the car and went back into the firing range. He found the range master, Bob Sherman talking to a woman who was obviously a beginner in the use of a firearm.

He tapped Sherman on the shoulder who turned around and smiled. "Oh, Agent Willard, you're back!"

"Do you have them?" Orson asked simply.

Sherman nodded with a smile and reached into his pocket. He produced six deformed bullets and dropped them into Orson's outstretched hand. "Yeah, these were a little hard to dig out of the rise because .44 mag rounds have such penetrating power. But I got 'em." Shaking his head he asked, "I really hope that I helped."

Nodding Orson replied, "Oh trust me sir, you have. I owe you one Mr. Sherman, thanks a bunch." Orson turned and walked out of the range with a smile. _We'll see what we see won't we, Mr. Hobbs?_


	5. Chapter 5

**I do not own the characters, content nor creativity of the Fast and the Furious or Martial Law movies. This is a fan-fiction written solely for enjoyment and entertainment**

 **Chapter 5:**

Two weeks later, Orson, Branford and twenty members of the the FBI's Hostage Rescue Team (HRT) as well as ten agents found themselves in a briefing room. SAC Dunning stood at the podium with Orson and Branford flanking him.

"Gentleman, today is the culmination of an incredible amount of hard work by agent's Branford and Willard." Dunning said. As if on cue, at the end of his sentence, the lights went out and a projector came on. "We're going after Dominic Toretto and his crew." the SAC said as the projector clicked on images of their quarry.

In the darkness of the room the people mumbled and whistled lowly. "Sir, I thought Toretto and company got a pardon, has that been revoked somehow?" a random agent in the back of the room asked.

"They got a pardon from their crimes in the U.S., true. Brazil wants to extradite them for crimes committed in their country. Thanks to the work of Branford and Willard, we've compiled enough evidence to comply with that request."

This seemed to satisfy the agents for they fell silent for the remainder of the briefing. "This bust is going to have to take crackerjack timing. This means, we're going to have to apprehend them all at once and at the same time."

"Why is that sir?" Somebody asked.

"We can't afford to take the risk that even one of them gets away to warn their cohorts. We all know of their...exploits." Though Dunning couldn't see them, he could tell that every agent in the room nodded. Toretto and crew were masters of the dramatic escape and usually that incurred lots of vehicular mayhem. "I want eyes on each suspect and coordination right down to the very second. The signal to go will be given from here, is that understood?"

"Yes sir!" Came the reply in unison from the assembled agents.

Soon the meeting broke up, leaving only Dunning, Orson and Branford in the room. "I noticed that you didn't tell them of our plan to apprehend Hobbs?" Branford said.

"Orson probably understands this better than anybody else," Dunning said, nodding to Orson. "No cop likes to see one of their own busted, especially a hero figure like Luke Hobbs. Everybody has their hands full as it is and we don't need their psychology messed up at a time like this."

Orson couldn't fault Dunning's logic because it was true. "Well no doubt we're not going to go march into the Department of State and arrest Hobbs right there in front of everybody, right?"

With a nod Dunning replied, "Yes that's correct. Even though we have a warrant, this is still going to be a jurisdictional nightmare. Having FBI agents marching Hobbs out of their building in cuffs will cause more problems than it will solve."

"Then how do we arrest him then?" Branford queried.

A devious smile crossed the SAC's lips, an expression Orson thought he'd never see on his face. "That's actually simple Agent Branford, we invite him down for a little chat."

An hour later, as the agents deployed to their targets, Luke Hobbs came into the FBI offices with a puzzled look on his face. Orson came out with that same cleverly disguised disingenuous smile plastered on his face. "Agent Hobbs, glad you could come down!" He said, pumping the big man's hand.

"It's good to see you again Agent Willard," Hobbs began. "Though I have to confess, I'm kind of puzzled as to why we couldn't talk about all this on the phone?"

Grinning Orson replied, "You know the old saying, 'the devil's in the details?' Well, the formation of an inter-agency shooting team is a lot more complicated than it sounds and it involves a _lot_ of details. My boss just wants to speak with you about it since he thinks its a great idea to build inter-agency morale. I promise we won't take too much of your time."

Hobbs nodded and shrugged. "Okay, lead the way."

The two entered Dunning's office where the SAC himself was seated at his desk. In one of the chairs sat Agent Dunning. "Agent Hobbs, it's an honor to finally meet you!" Dunning said, rising from his desk and shaking Hobbs' hand.

"Likewise sir. It's always nice to be in the FBI's spaces, you guys get a better budget."

The four agents all laughed and Hobbs took a seat. Branford remained seated while Orson stood by the door.

"Well before we get into that, I was wondering if you could take a look at something for us?" Dunning asked as he pulled out a huge case file and handed it to the DSS agent.

"What's this?" Hobbs asked as he reached for the file.

"Oh, just some stuff we'd like your professional opinion on." Orson said from the back of the room.

Raising a quizzical eyebrow, Hobbs opened the file. The expression on his face shifted from one of curiosity to one of surprise. "This is the Rio job. This was closed out awhile ago, why are you guys interested in this?"

"We noticed some...inconsistencies in the case that we hoped that you could clear up for us." Branford said with a casual smile.

"Keep reading, especially page forty-two." Dunning said.

The pages rattled in the silent room until Hobbs got to the aforementioned page. His eyes again went wide and then narrowed. He closed the file and turned around to meet Orson's eyes. "You son of a bitch." He muttered angrily as he realized why he was there.

"You shot Reyes in cold blood. I think your motive was revenge for the death of your crew." Orson said, not averting his gaze. "Our ballistics team matched the bullet from your gun to the Brazilian ballistics report. I understand your anger at the death of your comrades but that doesn't give you the right to murder."

"This is a warrant for your arrest and extradition to Brazil to face criminal charges there." Dunning said, pushing the piece of paper across his desk. We'll escort you to the private plane waiting at LAX and onto Brazil where you'll be remanded into their custody.

At first Hobbs said nothing and then he chuckled grimly. "Yeah, now I remember where I heard your name, Willard. Orson Willard, the cop that busted his own dad. Did you get a promotion for that? You like busting cops huh? Gives you a hard-on?"

Though the words weren't anything that Orson had not heard before, they no less stung. He took a deep breath and maintained his composure. "No, I don't particularly like busting cops unless they're absolutely filthy. You're a disgrace to the badge Hobbs; you took the law into your own hands and used your power to cover it up. Its only a shame that the Brazilians are going to get you instead of us."

"Reyes was a dirty drug lord who murdered people at will, including my team!" Hobbs shouted, the bass in his voice sounded like a wrathful god; it shook the room slightly.

"Doesn't mean you have the right to break the law, even the laws of a foreign country."Branford replied. In his left hand were a pair of hand cuffs and his right rested on the butt of his Glock 9mm.

Dunning nodded to Orson and the junior agent nodded back. "Lucas Hobbs, you're under arrest for the murder of Hernan Reyes. You have the right to remain silent..." It was agreed upon by Branford and Dunning that Orson should get credit for the bust, throw him a bone since he was still just a rookie to the FBI. "Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law."

Branford moved closer to place the cuffs on Hobbs, he grabbed one muscular arm. Orson meanwhile stood ready with his hand over his holster.

"I can't believe you guys are going to turn me over to a corrupt government to try me...for this!" Hobbs muttered under his breath.

As soon as the metal of the cuff touched Hobbs' flesh, he instantly reacted. He overpowered Branford's grip and lashed out with a meaty fist, smashing it into the older agent's face. Blood sprayed out everywhere sending tiny droplets all over Dunning's immaculate desk. Never stopping his motion, he bashed Branford's poor face against the desk, breaking some of his teeth.

Orson began to pull his pistol but Hobbs' speed was incredible. Before he could get his gun clear of the holster, the highly trained DSS agent flung Branford's unconscious body at Orson, slamming the two agents into the wall.

Despite having been behind a desk and not in the field for a long time, Dunning did himself proud with his reaction time, but it wasn't enough. As he stood up and pulled his gun, Hobbs knocked it away with a backhand, sending it sprawling across the room and then lashed out with a huge right-cross that connected with the senior agent's jaw. Dunning flew back into his chair and slumped.

Finally untangling himself from Branford's body, Orson jumped on Hobbs. This was stupid since the DSS agent was six inches taller than Orson's 5' 10 and at least a hundred pounds heavier. Hobbs flung the smaller man off him easily but Orson rolled with the fall and landed on his feet like a cat. Despite his agility, Hobbs was already on him. He blocked the first two of Hobbs' punches but caught a knee to his mid-section, knocking the wind out of him. Unable to defend himself against the next blow, A massive fist slammed against Orson's cheek, knocking him out cold.

Pain was the first thing to greet Orson as he came to. His vision was blurry and his surroundings looked like incomprehensible blotches. His entire head throbbed and he felt the coppery taste of blood fill his mouth as he sat up. Even the act of sitting up he found difficult but he somehow forced his uncooperative body to do it. As he did, he felt a hand press on his chest trying to keep down on the ground.

Out of instinct, he grabbed for the hand, ready to scrap with Hobbs some more but he felt two more hands press on him. "Lie still!" A voice that sounded far off said. His vision finally cleared enough for him to make out his surroundings and the people in them. He was still in Dunning's office, looking up at the ceiling. Over him were two EMTs; their heads blocked the florescent ceiling light which casted long shadows on the floor. "Agent Willard, please lie still, you might have a concussion."

"I'm fine" Orson croaked as he gently moved the EMT's hands away and sat up. "How long was I out?" His mouth felt like it was stuffed with dry cotton.

"About twenty minutes, you really took quite a bump sir."

Suddenly he remembered Dunning and Branford and his head whipped around looking for them. He saw EMT's attending to the senior agent, being helped out of his chair toward a wheelchair. "Where's Agent Branford?"

Pointing, they indicated Branford's location. He was strapped to a gurney and bandages covered his entire face. "He got it worse than you two sir," the EMT said. "We think he might have a split skull from where his head hit the desk. He's lucky to be alive."

"How's Agent Dunning?"

"Broken nose, probably a fractured jaw. He's missing a few teeth as well but he'll heal, sir."

Orson felt horrible at the condition of his fellow agents. Even though logic told him otherwise, he couldn't help but feel that this was somehow all of his fault. _If only I was quicker, if only I saw what Hobbs was going to do..._ He mused as he slowly stood up. He looked outside the office and it reminded him of a war zone He didn't even need to ask if Hobbs was in custody because he knew what the answer was already going to be. He also knew what his response to the situation was even before the thought fully formed.

"Agent Willard, where are you going?" One of the agents who was escorting the gurney that Branford was strapped down on, asked. A nasty, purplish bruise began to form on the agent's forehead.

"To settle this once and for all" was the simple but ominous reply that came from Orson.


	6. Chapter 6

**I do not own the characters, content or creativity of the Fast and the Furious or Martial Law movies. This is a Fan-Fiction written solely for enjoyment and entertainment**

 **Chapter 6**

Common wisdom dictates that a person should never harm a cop because the repercussions tend to be catastrophic. When a cop harms another cop, the repercussions have the equivalent of a nuclear holocaust. Orson pushed his Toyota Camry to its limits as he sped down the streets of L.A., while his mind seethed with fury. His face still throbbed from where Hobbes hit him and could feel his cheek beginning to swell. The pain just amplified the fury that was seething within him.

He sped down the 405 Freeway towards Malibu; according to the address on Hobbes' file, the DSS agent lived there in a small apartment near the beach. Dodging traffic and leaning on his horn, he swerved his car like a madman. _This would be easier with lights and sirens_ he thought as he swerved to avoid another car.

Orson hadn't been with the FBI long enough to get the service lights installed in his vehicle. It was on his to-do list but the case had kept him too busy to devote personal time to himself. The irony was not lost on him that he was breaking the traffic laws to catch a law-breaker. _Hobbes and I are_ not _alike!_ He screamed in his mind at some heretofore unrevealed inner-voice debating with him.

As if to underscore his actions, the radio on the passenger seat squawked to life and Orson answered it. _Driving while talking on a wireless device, boy I'm really racking them up tonight!_ He shrugged as he said into the device, "Any news on the raid?"

"The raid netted most of the gang. Letty Ortiz, O'Connor, Mia and Dominic Toretto got away though." The reply came back in a haze of background static.

"What about Hobbes? Anybody got a 'twenty' on him?"

"No Agent Willard."

In disgust, he dropped the radio on the front seat and did his best to slam the pedal through the metal. He wondered what he would do when he caught up to Hobbes. He couldn't remember the last time he was this angry. He'd never been angry enough to go off half-cocked and on his own like this but, there was a first time for everything he figured.

Not only had Hobbs embarrassed Orson, he hurt Dunning and Branford, nearly killed the latter agent. Though he wasn't particularly close to either of them, the two senior agents had accepted and trusted him without question, which counted a lot for Orson given his history. Orson owed the two his loyalty for that and he refused to let Hobbs go unpunished.

Going to Hobbs' house was a long-shot, Orson knew, but it was the only tangible lead he had. Hobbs was a trained DSS agent, an exceptional man-hunter He knew all the tricks of the trade including how to disappear. The young FBI agent knew that he was up against a clock. He figured that he only had 24 hours at the _most_ before he'd lose Hobbs forever. For a man as big as Lucas Hobbs, feat like that was even more impressive to Orson. He was determined to not let that happen.

After weaving around the tight Pacific Coast Highway roads, sometimes nearly going over the edge into the ocean, Orson finally pulled up in front of his destination. Despite his earlier misgivings, he was glad he didn't have sirens when he stopped his car. On the off chance Hobbs was in the apartment or in the area, he didn't want to alert the rogue agent.

His gun appeared in his hand almost of its own volition as he crept toward the apartment complex. Running in a crouch, he went through the breezeway. The entire building was very nice and spoke of great upkeep. But that was to be expected in an area like Malibu. He looked at the directory and saw that Hobbs lived in Apartment 5 which was located on the second floor. _The rent must be outrageous here!_ Orson pondered as he crept up the stairs.

A young couple walked toward him as he approached the apartment and almost gasped until Orson showed his badge. "FBI, please move along and get out of the area or back into your apartment" he whispered. Nodding, the couple hurried past him and down the stairs. Orson noted the attractive woman and felt a pang of envy as she passed him, leaving a faint trace of sweet smelling perfume in her wake. He mentally shrugged that he would be thinking of something like that at a time like this.

Leaning against the left side wall, he put his ear against the door to see if he could hear anything. As he expected, he heard nothing but couldn't help but feel a little disappointed. Snarling, he kicked his foot backwards into the door, smashing it open. In the same movement, he whirled around the corner, pistol first. "FBI!" he shouted as he entered the domicile.

Producing a flashlight, he braced his wrist holding the pistol over the wrist holding the flashlight as he scanned the room. The beam of light hit the furniture and wall fixtures but he saw no trace of Hobbs. If Hobbs was still in the apartment, Orson knew that he could be hiding anywhere in the darkness. Adrenaline surged with each beat of his pounding heart as he moved deliberately through the room. He tried to control his breathing through his nostrils and sweat began to bead on his forehead. This sensation was not new to him; the many busts he had been a part of, always produced a combination of excitement and fear within him.

A few minutes of a hasty, room by room search produced nothing. Satisfied that Hobbs was not in the apartment (as he earlier surmised), he flicked on the living-room light switch and holstered his weapon. He didn't even have to turn around to know there were onlookers, curious to know what was going on. He turned around anyway and again flashed his badge. "FBI! Get back in your homes, this is an active crime scene!" Even he was unprepared for the steel in his voice when he issued his command. Most of the crowd dispersed except for a couple of looky-loos across the courtyard. He knew there was nothing he could do about them so he ignored them and began his search.

Orson knew driving to the the DSS' L.A. Office was a bust; there was going to be a jurisdictional pissing match for the next couple of years over this. Professional courtesy went out the window for the sake of expediency, so any cooperation or hope of getting his hands on Hobbs' files was null and void. He just had to hope that there was some clue no matter how miniscule, that he could use to get a fix on his quarry.

Slapping on the rubber gloves, he tossed the apartment. Furniture and belongings went this way and that as Orson combed the place; he didn't even know what he was looking for, he just hoped it would jump out at him. _That isn't very likely,_ he mentally grumbled as he went about his business.

Thirty minutes of tearing the place apart (which was somewhat therapeutic for Orson), rendered zero results. Luke Hobbs lived a fairly spartan lifestyle considering his choice of living locations. Very early into his search, the impressions that Orson got was Hobbs was extremely disciplined and regimented from the way his clothes hung in the closet and how the shoes lined up neatly underneath them.

"Well, it _was_ a long-shot" he said to himself as he shrugged his shoulders in resignation. He sat down on the now ruined couch and put his head in his hands. _Where would I go if I were Lucas Hobbs?_ He thought furiously.

Something caught his eye which made him glance up. It was a picture of Hobbs with an attractive woman on a tropical island half buried in one of the drawers he tossed. He surmised that it was an old girlfriend. Opening the back of the picture frame, he looked for any writing on it. He hit paydirt and read the inscription that said: "Luke and Alyssa, living the dream. 1998." To Orson, Lucas Hobbs looked extremely happy. Placing his hand on his chin, he pondered.

"He obviously won't go to his family to hide, that would be one of the first places we'd look. But he has to get out of the country forever. He has to disappear but his skills give him the option of going where he wants, undetected. So why wouldn't he go somewhere he knows where he could kick back and remain undetected?" He looked at the woman in the picture and said, "I'd hide out with her."

New inspiration coursed through him. He knew that the entire office was running down every known associate of Hobbs or as much as they could without getting stonewalled by the DSS. Orson wondered how deep the investigations would go? 1998 was a long time ago, almost thirteen years to be exact. As far as Orson knew, Hobbs had no significant other but maybe... "Maybe this 'Alyssa' person knows something? The looked awfully in love in that picture. Maybe they maintained contact?" He knew it was yet another long-shot but slipped the picture into his pocket and rummaged around the apartment some more.

His hunch about Hobbs' feelings for Alyssa were semi-confirmed when he saw some cards in a scrapbook as well as other pictures of her. "The guy scrapbooks?" Orson asked incredulously, trying to picture someone like Hobbs having a scrapbook collection. For some strange reason despite the evidence in his hands, he just couldn't form the image. He took out another picture of "Alyssa," a singular picture of her which to Orson, was an extremely flattering photo and looked on the back. "Alyssa Michaels" it said. _I have a name now_ he thought as he pulled out his phone.

It only took two rings for the FBI's Cyber-Information Office to answer. After giving his name and identification he asked for information on Alyssa Michaels in the state of California.

"Agent Willard, do you realize how many 'Alyssa Michaels' there are in the city of Los Angeles, let alone the entire state?" The agent on the other end of the phone, Bill Fenney asked sarcastically.

"I know, I know!" Orson replied, exasperated. He looked at the tropical photo again and then at a framed piece of paper mounted on the wall. The piece of paper was a diploma from the University of Southern California. "Agent Fenney, try looking through the records of USC, circa 1998 for Alyssa Michaels."

There was an exasperated sigh on the other end of the phone which annoyed Orson to no end. But the important thing to him was that he could hear computer keys clicking which signaled that the agent was doing his job. The thing that grate under Orson's skin the most was the waiting. Logically he knew that it hadn't been a long time since his request but it seemed like ages ago since he made it.

"You're in luck, Agent Willard." Came the reply. "There was an Alyssa Michaels that attended USC around that time frame. I cross-referenced her name with city records and came up with a phone number and an address."

"Give it to me" Orson said, whipping out a pen and writing the information on his hand. Before Agent Fenney could say anything else, Orson hung up on him and copied the information into his phone. Using online maps, he found that her address was thirty minutes away from Hobbs. He didn't even bother turning off the lights or closing the door when he dashed out of the apartment.


	7. Chapter 7

**I do not own the characters, content or creativity of the Fast and the Furious or Martial Law movies. This is a Fan-Fiction written solely for entertainment and enjoyment**

 **Chapter 7**

Lucas Hobbs stood in Hangar 4 of Gabriel Airlines, a small charter company ran out of Northern Los Angeles. Despite looking comfortable in his jeans and t-shirt that stretched across his massive chest, he felt what seemed like for the first time in his life, nervous and alone. The leather jacket stretched a bit taught due to the pistol underneath it. At his feet was a gym bag with what was left of all of his worldly possessions that he could carry.

The FBI had swarmed all over the city looking for him and Toretto's crew. He heard that Dom, Letty, Brian and Mia had gotten away but the rest of them had been captured. As it was, his face was plastered all over the news and any contacts that he may have had in the government had been burnt. He couldn't run the risk of driving cross country without getting picked up by the highway patrol; he had to face it, he stood out. All major lanes of travel were off limits to him and the charter plane he used for covert missions was in Nevada, which he knew there was no way he could make.

Some fast talking and using the last little bit of leverage left he had available to him, he managed to get this small company to charter a flight out of the country. He made sure to use an alias and cash so he couldn't be traced. He shook his head in fury that things had come to this. That he had to go on the lam for getting payback on the man who killed his team. Some punk, rookie agent was willing to turn him in to the Brazilian authorities over a scumbag. Hobbs realized that if he wasn't so angry about it, he'd find the whole thing funny. As it was, all he could find was that irony was a bitch.

Though he couldn't quite explain it, some sense, an animal instinct maybe, told him that something was dreadfully wrong. That same instinct made him reach into his jacket and pull his gun out. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted the object of his dread and hatred. _That son of a bitch!_ He mentally screamed and he turned and pointed his Model 629 at the shadow creeping around the corner.

A loud "boom" reverberated throughout the hanger, accompanied by the sparks the bullet made from the impact against the steel wall. Orson ducked right when Hobbes pointed his gun at him. Popping up, Orson returned fire with his Detonics Scoremaster, squeezing off two rounds. Hobbs size belied his speed because he was already moving behind cover when Orson fired. The bullets bounced harmlessly off the forklift Hobbs hid behind.

"I'm impressed!" Hobbs said from behind the forklift. "How the hell did you find me?"

Orson said nothing but scrambled to another position behind some crates in the hopes that he could outflank Hobbs. His opponent saw this, popped up and fired off another round. Orson dropped into a combat roll and managed to get behind the crates. The bullet slammed into the wood crate, sending up dust everywhere.

"You missed Hobbs!"

"I don't miss too many times!" Came the reply. He popped up to return fire again but to find Orson lying on his side and firing his pistol. Seven shots came from the FBI agent, causing Hobbs to duck his head back down as the bullets ricocheted against his sole protection.

Getting back up against the crate, the young FBI agent extracted the empty clip from his pistol and slammed home a fresh one from his belt; his hands shook as he withdrew the clip. _I gotta stop throwing away slugs!_ He thought desperately as he strained his ears for any sounds of movement. The sounds of gunfire made his ears ring so the task was just that much harder. He slowly raised his head for a quick peek just to drop it back down as another bullet from Hobbs' gun slammed into the wood. _That one almost parted my hair! That was too close!_

"I noticed you came alone! What, no backup?" Hobbs taunted. "Are you here to _murder_ me Agent Willard?"

"I'd certainly like to, you son of a bitch. But no, I'm taking you down Hobbs!" Orson replied. _Behind that forklift, he has way too much cover, we're at a stalemate. I have to draw him out somehow_ Orson calculated. He took three deep breaths and then popped his gun over his head and blind fired three quick shots. After the third shot, he started to run towards Hobbs' right flank. As he hoped, Hobbs fired at the place where he had _been,_ at the crates.

Realizing his mistake, Hobbs whirled around and fired at the last position where he thought he saw Agent Willard and then fired again. He realized that he made another mistake and that his opponent was nearly behind him. He spun around again to see the extended compensator on the barrel of the agent's Scoremaster pointed at him. Willard was laying prone and pointing the pistol up at Hobbs from twenty feet away.

" _Drop it Hobbs,_ it's over!"

At first, Hobbs wanted to prove Willard wrong and put one right between his eyes, but he knew that the agent had the drop on him. He'd seen Agent Willard shoot firsthand and knew that he couldn't miss at this range, especially in the prone position. With a smile and a shrug, he let his .44 Magnum drop to the ground.

"You never answered my question, how did you find me?"

"Alyssa Michaels." Orson replied as he stood up quickly, making sure to still train his gun on Lucas Hobbs. The former DSS agent look confused and Orson took considerable pleasure in enlightening him.

"You see, I found an old picture of you and her in your apartment. What struck me was where the photo taken. Given your training, I knew you wouldn't go to ground in obvious places where you could be easily found. Every conventional route out of the state was closed and your ability to access DSS resources was cut off from you. Even still, there was virtually no tracing you down or predicting where you could possibly go.

"I talked to Alyssa y'see. Granted, the two of you haven't spoke in over ten years but I showed her the picture and asked her where it was taken. Turns out it was taken in Bali. So I started asking myself, 'if I was on the lam, would I go back to a place were I was truly happy?' The answer was yes. So I started checking for flights, charter flights to Bali since you couldn't use the major airports. I found ten charter flights that international capabilities in the greater Los Angeles area. Only one of them had filed flight plans for Bali within the last eight hours. Even the shadiest aircraft companies have to file a flight plan which is federally flagged. So yeah, basically I played a hunch and it paid off."

Smiling, Hobbs started to clap. "You're a pretty bright guy there, Willard. Didn't think anybody would think to look for charter planes, let alone narrow down a location like that. I've gotta say...I'm impressed."

"Enough talk!" Orson snapped! "Agent Lucas Hobbs, I am hereby arresting you for the charges of murder, assaulting federal agents, attempted murder and resisting arrest. Not only that, my jaw still hurts like hell. Lay on the ground and put your hands on your head, _now!"_

Another shake of his bearded head and a smirk of disgust, Hobbs complied and lay down on the ground. While still pointing the gun on Hobbs, Orson withdrew his hand cuffs and approached the prone man slowly and cautiously; he knew that Hobbs was still extremely dangerous.

"Too bad Hobbs, you almost got away. Your ride to paradise is coming and you're going to miss it."

"No, no I won't!" With a speed coming from years of training, the DSS agent swept Orson's legs out from under him with a slick, sweep kick. As Orson went down, he kicked the gun out of the FBI agent's hand and followed up with another kick to the jaw. He heard a satisfying grunt and felt the impact of boot to flesh. The gun went clattering off into the darkness. Rising to his feet, he ripped his jacket off of him. "You ruined my reputation and you ruined my life! Beating the shit out of you is going to be a real pleasure, boy."

With blood trickling from the side of his mouth, Orson scrambled to his feet as Hobbs took off his jacket. "No, you did all of that yourself. I'm kind of glad it came down to this though because as you're implying, this is personal. You're gonna get every square inch of your ass kicked!" He tossed the handcuffs away but before he could get into a fighting stance, Hobbs came charging at him and tackled Orson into a stack of crates with a gargantuan crash.

An elbow from Orson flew into Hobbs' face, forcing him off and allowing the younger man to get to his feet. Hobbs started swinging furiously making Orson dodge and parry each blow. Trying to create some distance, Orson threw a spinning back kick which connected in the center of Hobbs' massive chest, causing him to stagger back. Seeing his chance, Orson followed up with a scream and a windmill kick which caught Hobbs' flush in the jaw, knocking the big man off of his feet.

For Orson, it was a moral victory to knock Hobbs down and it felt good. Hobbs' lashed out with his hands, trying to grab Orson which made him jump back out of the renegade agent's reach. Hobbs got to his feet and feinted like he was going to attack which made Orson flinch.

"Oh yeah, I forgot you were part of that 'Martial Law' bullshit." Hobbs mocked, wiping the blood from his mouth. "You've got some fancy moves."

"They get much better, trust me." Orson replied.

This time it was Orson on the offensive; he charged Hobbs, punching and kicking at the rogue agent. Hobbs blocked most of them and dodged the rest with that uncanny speed Orson still had trouble believing. He caught Orson with a meaty fist to the jaw that rattled him and made his legs go limp like spaghetti. He tried to follow up with a right cross which Orson ducked and countered with a couple of quick punches to the body and an uppercut.

Blood flew out of Hobbs' mouth and he saw black spots. With Hobbs' looking like he was out on his feet, Orson attacked with a jump, spinning back kick which connected with the jaw, spinning Hobbs around like a top; it was like out of a movie. In desperation mode and partly out of delirium, he put all of his weight into a massive tackle which slammed Orson to the ground.

He was all over Orson with huge, hammering fists raining down on the FBI agent. It was all Orson can do to cover up and weather the storm as best he could. There was a momentary lapse in the action as Hobbs paused while trying to figure out a more vulnerable part to concentrate his beating. Orson knew that it was now or never; he threw up his legs and wrapped Hobbs' attacking arm utilizing his Judo techniques. The much larger man screamed in pain as he felt his arm being torqued into an unnatural position.

Seeing Hobbs scream in pain, Orson cried out too but in triumph and intense effort as he gripped even tighter. He had every intention of breaking Hobbs' arm or ripping it off if he could. The two glared at each other with intense hatred as they exerted themselves. Orson extended his hips trying to get more leverage to deliver on his silent vow. He allowed himself a slight smile when he heard something of Hobbs, pop.

Sweat pouring down his face and grunting with effort and pain, Hobbs lifted Orson off the ground, to the young FBI agent's disbelief. Hobbs pulled and pulled until Orson's prone body was eye level with Hobbs. There was a sinking feeling in the pit of Orson's stomach as he knew what was going to happen next but was unable to do anything about it. _Oh shi..._ Orson thought in fear. At the last second, Orson twisted to his right.

With all of the force he could muster, Hobbs slammed Orson down onto the concrete, driving the air out of the man with a grunt. Orson lay on the ground wondering if he was paralyzed. Meanwhile, Hobbs stumbled away holding his hurt arm. Stars swam around Orson's eyes as he tried to catch his breath. Pain wracked his entire body but as he began to move his legs, his fear about paralysis was allayed. He slowly crawled to his side, holding himself and groaning.

"Is...is that...all you've...got?" Orson managed to choke out as he slowly got back to his feet. Blood trickled from the side of his mouth and nose. "You...bitch."

That got Hobbs to turn around. "You're a lot tougher than I gave you credit for, I'll give you that. You fucked my arm up something good! But I only need one to beat you."

Swinging with his good arm, Hobbs lashed out, very nearly taking Orson's head off with his massive blow. Orson ducked and the effort caused him to grunt with pain; he knew he had cracked ribs from the power-bomb he received. He caught a knee to the face for his troubles; blood exploded from his nose and he felt a couple of teeth give too.

Again Hobbs swung but Orson gritted his remaining teeth and countered with a sweep-kick which knocked the big man off of his feet. The shock traveled through Orson's body and aggravated his rib injury. He lashed out with a kick to Hobbs' face, paying him back in kind for the similar kick he took earlier.

Both men got to their feet, both swaying and gasping like a couple of punch-drunk fighters. Again Hobbs charged but this time, Orson wrapped his arm around Hobbs' thick neck and squeezed. Simultaneously, he delivered vicious knees to the body with all the ferociousness of a blood-thirsty beast. Hobbs grunted with each blow but continued to drive forward, rushing toward a nearby wall.

The two of them slammed into the wall and through it; it was dry-wall not concrete like the both of them expected. Still the impact knocked the two of them senseless and they crawled around in the dark office like blind turtles. Hobbs got to his feet first but he was noticeably slower from the damage he took.

Orson reached for a couple of broken pieces of wood and stood up. "It's over... you're...over." He managed to gasp out. "I'm...taking you down!"

With a mighty effort, Hobbs swung but Orson parried with one of the sticks and followed up with a furious combo to the head and body, his body remembering the long hours of weapons katas he'd practiced in Shotokan Karate. The sticks made wet sounds of wood smacking on flesh. He spun around and slammed both sticks on Hobbs' head, breaking them. Finally, the rogue agent went down in a heap.

What remained of his improvised weapons, Orson dropped to the ground. Mercifully, Orson followed them, slumping against a wall, trying to catch his breath and blink the blood dripping into his eyes. He could hear sirens growing louder in the distance. He couldn't tell if they were faint because they were a long ways out or because he was hovering on the brink of consciousness. At the moment he really didn't care because he succumbed to the blackness.


	8. Chapter 8

**I do not own the characters, content or creativity of the Fast and the Furious or Martial Law movies. This is a fan-fiction written solely for entertainment and enjoyment**

 **Chapter 8**

A month and a half later, Orson found himself at a bar, sipping on a beer. The scars on his face and his ribs were nearly healed but the pain still lingered. He was reading the newspaper; the article was about how former DSS agent Lucas Hobbs was extradited and being tried in Rio de Janeiro Brazil. The rest of Dominic Toretto's gang, the ones that had been caught, were awaiting trial.

Agent Branford was still in a coma and the doctors weren't sure when he'd wake up, _if_ he'd wake up at all. Orson had visited him a couple of times while he was in the hospital and a few more times when he himself was released. He had met Branford's wife when she came to visit her husband and couldn't help but feel a pang of guilt when he saw her.

Dunning meanwhile was recovering nicely. Because he was an older man, he didn't heal as quickly as Orson. Even still, Dunning had gone back to work. There had been an award ceremony for Orson. Though most of the office clapped for him, Orson noticed that some of them refrained; the fact that their office had busted one of their own was a taste that didn't sit well in their mouths.

He shook the thoughts out of his head as an attractive brunette caught his eye. She sat alone at the bar and ordered a red wine. She was tall for a woman and very athletic; her physique was apparent even through her business outfit. She had warm brown eyes and an engaging smile which was directed at the bartender as a thanks for her drink.

Mustering up his courage, Orson approached the woman, his stomach in all kinds of knots. Every cliché about approaching a stranger for the first time played through his head like a movie on fast-forward with each footstep.

"Hi, how's it going?" Orson said as casually as he possibly could.

She looked up and started to say something but then her smile turned sour. "I've seen you before. You're that cop that puts away other cops."

"Umm...yeah, that's right."

"Bye."

Slapping a ten dollar bill on the bar, she got up and walked out. Orson noticed that the gun and badge on her hip when her blazer lifted up. He stared at the bar for a few minutes, trying to process what just happened. He then looked up at the bartender who could only shrug. Orson shrugged in reply and walked back to his seat. Taking another pull at the beer, he smirked and shook his head. This was nothing new to him, he'd just bury himself in his work like he usually did. He finished his beer and went home.

 **The End**


End file.
